Fall
by Conigliomannaro
Summary: The last thing Axel was able to sketch before his disease consumed him is a blossoming peach tree; it's all that's left of him, now. Angst, death.


**BEFORE YOU READ, PLEASE NOTE THIS:** This story was written over two years ago after a very close aunt of mine had died by liver cancer; it was written to exorcize the pain, and is for that reason very tragic and very crude. **Please, do not read this if illness or cancers are very sensitive subjects to you**. I repeat: **TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR CANCER AND ILLNESS**.

Thanks for your time and your patience; if this story offends you somehow, believe me, it was not my intention and I apologize.

Last lil' thing before we start: you may have read this story on one of my other accounts, so don't be surprised to find it here: I am the same girl as CacaoNero on y!gal and Conigliomannaro on Lj.

**On with the story.**

It hadn't always been like that. There was a time, something like a lifetime ago, when he was the cherished part of the couple; he was the one picked up at school, he was taken out for ice cream, for dinner, or generally for a ride on Axel's motorbike. He was the kiddo—a nickname he had been forced to grow fond of, for Axel very rarely called him anything else—the little one that was picked up by big, strong hands and flung over a shoulder kicking, laughing and struggling. There was a time in which Axel pounced him as soon as he came home from work, a time in which they acted like ridiculous, stupid teenagers in love, fucking and making out whenever possible. Those memories of happiness sounded odd, now, fake; Like they didn't even belong to him.

There was a time in which Axel was Axel. A time that seemed faded by what felt like centuries, buried in a past made of memories Roxas could barely recognize as his own. Had he really been so serene, so happy, so ridiculously careless and hopeful? Had there really been a time in which he believed so strongly in happy endings? A time in which he could afford to bitch at Axel for an ugly present, breaking up for stupid reasons, wasting hours he could have spent with him playing stupid videogames and ignoring his calls in the name of a stupid grudge held on petty things?

Mere months later it all sounded so far away, so unreal. Roxas didn't even recognize himself, in his memories.

There was a time Axel's cheeks weren't hollowed out by illness, and his eyes stayed closed just when he slept, red hair messy from his fights with the pillow and face hidden in cotton, as to escape from the rays of the sun. Sometimes, Roxas came back from school and found Axel still in bed, breakfast and lunch forgotten in favor of sleep. Times in which Roxas slid in bed with him, nuzzled his way inside Axel's arms, and took a nap with him, before waking him up for an afternoon snack, that Axel insisted on calling 'breakfast'.

There was a time in which Axel's hands were just thin and not skeletal; it was a time where the mere sight of Axel sketching – long, nervous fingers curled around a pencil, a black or a sepia charcoal – could make Roxas feel frisky and drop his pants without a word.

When Axel drew, a tiny crease of concentration formed between his brows, and Roxas loved that look on him. He used to have moments of ridiculously sappy affection, in which he walked to his boyfriend while he was doing something else and surprised him by pulling him down to kiss his freckles, or bit the dimples that formed next to his mouth when Axel laughed; Axel snorted and laughed at these affectionate onslaughts, barely refraining from flushing a little, and pushed him away: Roxas was rarely the affectionate type, and these moments of affection always took him by surprise and threw him off.

They were happy, back then. Happy and healthy, and free, and alive. So alive that those memories hurt, now, in Roxas' new routine made of beeps, the soft green glow of the monitor, the aseptic smell of medicine, soap and refectory food. A time that felt like a lifetime before, Axel's eyes had been alive. Their green shined of its own light, and when Axel laughed or grinned they almost closed, lower lids pushed up by his cheeks.

Because Axel, Axel was amazing and outstanding, and Roxas only understood it now, when it was already way too late.

Another thing Roxas missed of Axel was his voice: back in the day, it had been able to make Roxas come shuddering and yelling even when Axel was just jacking him off, its low and soothing timber playing skilfully on Roxas' vocal kink.; Axel could be exceptionally cheesy, when he wanted, but that low, warm tone could make the lamest, cheesiest pick-up lines sound sexy.

Axel was fire. He was a burning, irrepressible will to live, loud and obnoxious explosions of joy, sudden storms of anger and just as sudden moments of calm. Axel didn't know any half measures, didn't act like he was supposed to most of the time. Roxas' parents didn't like him – they never really accepted the fact that Roxas wouldn't give them heirs, and always blamed everything on Axel, for he had _corrupted _Roxas – had never liked him, but they had come to visit him anyway a couple times. They had come in, cast a glance to Axel, spoken a little with the nurses; Roxas' father was a doctor himself, had some friends in the hospital and was allowed to see Axel's files. He discussed the therapy with some doctor, agreed to enhance the drugs, and then tried to have a talk with Roxas.

Roxas flipped him off, and practically threw a fit when they offered to pay for Axel's funeral. They could have at least pretended to not be so pleased by where Axel stood – or better, lied – after all.

Axel had been a magnificent gem, shining like a falling star and burning just as fast. When Roxas thought about the time they had spent together, it felt like that time was far, so far away. He remembered there had been a time they were happy, a time in which Axel was the strong one; a time in which Roxas clung to him, pulling his hair – his red, ridiculously sexy red hair – while Axel panted in his ear and slammed inside him hard enough to make him scream 'til he was dizzy.

There had been a time in which the worst perspective in their future seemed to be spending Saturday night at home, chips in Axel's hands, a bad action movie on TV, and a night of bored sex ahead. A time in which they thought they'd be together forever—forever, _forever_, until they'd die. How could have they believed such a beautiful, beautiful fairy tale?—a time, which they believed to be eternal.

It seemed a whole life had passed. Years and years faded into decades, and maybe more: centuries, millenniums, and so on so forth; but if Roxas checked the calendar, those happy days were just months away – not even _twelve_ – in the past.

Around the first half of March, Axel's stomach began acting up; he had gone to the doctor, a mere week later got some exams done, to see what was wrong. It had been spring: the peach tree in their garden had just blossomed, and Axel had started sketching it with his sepia charcoal, sitting on his wicker chair next to the window.

As soon as the diagnosis had been in his hands, he had started the recommended prophylaxis. Drugs, medicines, a particular kind of diet, everything done behind Roxas' back because 'It's no use to tell the kiddo, he'd just grow worried.' Until things couldn't be delayed anymore, and he was forced to tell Roxas: that, or pretend to be losing locks and locks of hair because of a sudden, precocious and unjustified baldness.

Roxas remembered the anxiety, the anger, the _fury _at the idea of having been left out of something so important that for so long, and that ferocious terror took him by the hand that day and still accompanied his every moment. He started looking at Axel as if every breath could be his last, like, if he kept an eye on him, he wouldn't leave, wouldn't die. Axel got skinnier and skinnier, the monster inside him eating up his very flesh, his stomach, his energy.

The cure left him tired, breathless in his bed. Wide, feverish green eyes stared blankly at the ceiling while Roxas sobbed silently and crawled next to him under the covers and curled against his side, trying to remember how it was like when Axel was still strong enough to pick him up with just one arm and bring him around dangling from his shoulder. There were long, never-ending weeks in which Axel slept through the whole day, eyes fluttering open just when Roxas shook him awake to feed him or bring him to the tub to wash puke and blood off him.

The cure was aggressive, left him strengthless, often confused, dazed. Sometimes he didn't even recognize Roxas, didn't even want that blond stranger to touch him. Roxas couldn't take that fear, ran away tottering in pain and desperation, shuffling his way to the bathroom to curl up in a small, desperate ball in a corner; and then he screamed, screamed against his knees, arms covering his face and his ears, until his throat went hoarse and he started coughing hard enough to end up puking and sobbing on the floor.

Some other times Axel was just tired, was only a little stomach sick, but was himself; sometimes he just shuffled to the bathroom – or the sink – to puke some blood and some stupid macrobiotic food. Roxas had started placing a bucket next to him to throw up in so Axel didn't have to get up and try to reach the bathroom, risking to lose it on the carpet of the living room. It worked. Axel smiled, said he was a smart housewife, and Roxas, instead of bitching at him, suppressed a sob of desperation.

On those days, Axel wanted Roxas to sit on his lap and leaned his head on Roxas' shoulder, forehead against the base of his neck; normally he fell asleep fast, in that position, and Roxas held him stiffly, nervous: desperate eyes ran back and forth from Axel's thin form to his lips, to make sure that that beautiful, beautiful shell was still breathing.

They didn't make love anymore, obviously. Roxas desperately missed the feeling of Axel's skin against his, sweat and saliva slicking the way of their caresses, and their breathless pants, gasps of pleasure, moans of bliss, and hisses of 'slow down fucker' that made Axel laugh so loud. 'As if you liked it slow, baby,' was what Axel answered to his hisses, bucking inside him and making him arch and moan against the pillow. Axel was right. He liked it rough—he liked it fast and hard.

Now, months later, holding Axel's skinny and tired form, Roxas sadly thought that, maybe, even slow wouldn't be so bad as long as there was something; a name to moan, hair to pull, a back to scratch. 'Watch it, fucking wild cat. You'll scar me one of these days,' Axel would hiss. Roxas would snort, tease, purr 'You love it,' and that would lead to another session, back from scratches. Literally.

Until one day, one day Axel didn't open his eyes for breakfast, and Roxas screamed, got in a full panic attack, threw a fit, and half the neighbors called half a dozen ambulances; maybe for Roxas, maybe for Axel. It wasn't clear who needed it the most.

From then on, Axel had never woken up. The doctors said he was in a coma, that it was a matter of weeks, maybe days, and Roxas begged and hissed until he was allowed to never leave his side. There was no reason to go back home. In the bed, there were still the same vomit and blood stained sheets, and no one to come home to, no one waiting for him, no one to pounce and fuck him silly on the carpet next to the front door. There was just an empty house, an empty, dirty bed, and meds, drugs everywhere.

Plus, maybe, Axel would wake up, even just a second. And Roxas really, really missed the green of his eyes.

Roxas had learned a lot about the parameters on the monitor, and he knew when he should start panicking. He knew when he could just sit there and stare, as if his desperate, anguished gaze could chase the undesired guest out of Axel's stomach, make him open his eyes and smile again with dimples and half-closed eyes and all. When that day he saw the saturation precipitate under ninety in a matter of moments, he jumped to his feet, let out a scream, and grabbed Axel's hand, squeezing desperately. "I love you Axel, I love you, I love you, I love you, don't go, don't go, don't go!"

He had so many things to say, so many other things, smaller and bigger, but that seemed the most important now. What had their last kiss tasted like? What had been their last words to each other? He didn't remember, and now it was too late—it was too late forever. He couldn't discern the numbers anymore through the veil of tears, and a nurse pushed him to the side as a doctor, together with someone else, tried to revive Axel. He let himself fall down in a corner of the room, hands over his ears as he hid his face between his knees again, sobbing in silence while five strangers flailed around his love. They would do it. Axel wouldn't let go, wouldn't leave him alone.

After an undefined time, a long, continued beep preceded a short, cold sentence. "Time of death, three forty seven pm."

When Roxas opened his eyes again, someone had covered Axel's form with a sheet, and everyone had left.

For some reason, at that time, that unfinished sketch of a blossoming peach tree was the first thing that came to his mind.


End file.
